Driving On Automatic
by sapienlover
Summary: Roger Murtaugh really must remind himself to tell doctors not to give Riggs Percocet ...


Getting stabbed had never been Riggs' idea of a fun afternoon.

Actually, he thought, as he lay there on the floor of the derelict apartment block basement bleeding like a stuck hog, he really should have known better than to pay more attention to the kid who was trying to avoid him than to his surroundings.

They had been in a wrecked apartment kitchen and Riggs, pelting after the heavily tattooed young man running away from him, hadn't noticed the kid lift an abandoned knife, the handle sticking out from under a rag on a worktop.

Riggs had run right onto it. Not that he had felt it, really, to begin with. And then he barely registered the sting as the filthy blade slid between his ribs.

"Ow," he'd said matter-of-factly and then ignoring the slickness at his side he continued after the kid, who headed down a set of stairs in the corridor outside which led to the basement.

It wasn't until his legs began to wobble a bit, which mystified him, that he thought maybe … _maybe_ , something was wrong, and he felt a bit shaky and when he finally went down onto his hands and knees, his vision blurring, he noticed, somewhat idly, the heavy drips of blood which began to splash onto the floor.

And that was when Murtaugh found him. Panicking, of course, yelling angrily at him just in case Riggs thought he could die on him, which would be _goddamn ungrateful_ seeing as Rog had done his damnedest to keep Riggs' sorry ass out of trouble. Oh, and Trish would be _furious_.

Riggs felt Murtaugh gently turn him onto his back and press hard against the wound, which made Riggs yelp and then the Texan grinned through the pain and opened his eyes to look up at his partner.

"Heeey, Rog …" he drawled wearily, "I … I think I hurt myself …"

"Yeah, you dumbass," Murtaugh ranted, "that little shit stuck you, Riggs! Goddamn blood everywhere!"

And as Riggs lay there, feeling his blood drain oh-so-easily from his body, he heard the sirens and Roger's voice, and, as always, the whisper of Miranda's smile echoing in his mind and her eyes shining with love, even as the blackness took him and he slid into oblivion.

* * *

"Dammit, Trish, I _swear_ – one of these days I'm gonna kill him, even if someone else does it first!"

Roger Murtaugh sat at the kitchen table nursing a decaf coffee and looked over at his wife. Trish Murtaugh looked tired, stressed and worried.

The entire Murtaugh family, baby Harper included, had spent the last few days in and out of the hospital at the side of their errant _idiot_ of a family member, Detective Martin Riggs, who despite his best efforts at dying had made it through and was now on the road to recovery.

Trish sighed and sipped her wine.

"Roger … I'm just glad he's still alive, honey." She put down her glass and wandered around the table to wrap her arms around her husband. "C'mon, handsome. It's late and I'm tired, and the kids need to get some sleep. Harper needs a bath and I need a shower and …" Trish's voice hitched. "We nearly lost him, y'know?"

Roger held his wife to him and rested his chin on her head.

"It was a close one. But he's doing okay, and he'll be out in a few days, driving me crazy and eating us out of house and home. And he can take back his _damn' dog_ –"

He glared at the mutt lying in his doggie bed out like a light and twitching messily in his sleep.

His cell phone rang, and Roger groaned.

"No … no-no-no, not now. Why can't people get killed during office hours?"

Trish smiled at him tiredly as Roger answered the call, listening to the irate voice on the other end of the 'phone. Roger's eyes widened.

"You're kidding me!" He paused. "When?" He looked at his watch. " _Two hours?_ Why the hell didn't you call me sooner?"

Trish frowned and gestured at her husband, who was steadily becoming more irate, to calm down.

 _What's wrong?_ She mouthed.

But before Roger could answer, there came a heavy knocking at the front door.

Roger scowled and snapped at the unknown caller.

"Call you back!"

And before Trish could move, Roger stalked past her into the hallway and opened the front door.

And there was Riggs, hunched and sore and grinning like the deranged moron he was, wearing a hospital gown and his boots and absolutely nothing else.

"Rog!" he croaked. "I made it!" He waved an arm about erratically.

Trisha was suddenly beside Roger and reaching for Riggs, who widened his lopsided grin.

" _There_ she is! Trish! I _got_ _here!_ " he babbled.

Roger sighed.

"Damn. They gave you Percocet, didn't they?"

"Hell, _yeah!_ " Riggs said cheerfully.

Trish cupped Riggs' feverish face and smoothed back the riot of hair falling in his eyes.

"Martin, sweetie, why are you out of the hospital? C'mon inside! Roger, call the hospital and tell them we'll be bringing him right back –"

"Ooohhhh no," Riggs objected. "Not goin'. I decided to go home."

He gestured painfully at his truck, now parked haphazardly across the road outside the Murtaugh home. As he turned, Trish winced as she spotted the heavy bandage around his ribs above the skinny ass peeking out of the gown. She fervently hoped Mrs Mulrooney across the road wasn't peering - as was her wont – through her front window. By now she would be getting quite the eyeful of Riggs' scrawny posterior lit by the streetlight outside their home.

"Martin … inside. Roger, help him," she ordered. "Guest room."

Roger watched as Riggs wobbled and straightened, and then held up a paper bag in a hand swathed in what appeared to be two sanitary towels wrapped around with duct tape.

"See? I don't need the hospital." He waggled the bag to make his point. "They gave me _pills_ ," he added conspiratorially.

Roger gently wrestled the medication out of Riggs's hand and steered the loopy Texan towards the open door.

"Okay, Riggs … let's go and get you sorted out then I'll tell the hospital and Cap where you are." As he helped Riggs up the step, he had a thought. "You were going home? Why'd you come here?"

Riggs, now beginning to fade a bit, frowned thoughtfully.

"Couldn't remember how to get there," he replied, his tone almost shy. "So I came here. Seems I automatically knew how, so, y'see, it's the same thing."

Trish, who was following on behind, herding the pair of them into the house and clutching Riggs's gown shut to preserve what decency he had left, smiled despite her worry.

"I suppose it is, Martin," she said softly. "I _hope_ it is," she added under her breath.

" _Is he okay?_ " RJ said, appearing at the top of the staircase, his eyes big and dark with concern.

Roger glanced up at his son.

"Go get a set of my PJs will you, RJ? We're going to get Riggs settled for the night in the guest room. And ask Riana to get the first aid kit. And keep an eye on Harper!" he added, knowing the child was sitting happily in her play pen.

As RJ did as he was bidden, Roger steered a fast-fading Riggs to the guest room on the first floor. Trish switched on the lamp beside the bed, now always made up for Riggs because Roger finally got tired of his partner's bony hide stretched out on his couch or one of the deck recliners, cluttering up the place.

"Come on, man … let's get you tidied up, huh?" Roger eased Riggs down onto the bed and waited until RJ handed him a pair of pyjamas. They would swamp Riggs' frame, but crazy cowboy detectives high on painkillers would just have to deal with it.

Trish took the first aid kit from Riana's unresisting fingers and shooed both RJ and Riana out of the room, closing the door. The kids could come and see Riggs when he was comfortable and cared-for.

Settling down beside him, Trish took Riggs' hand and studied the duct-tape binding. She noticed there was blood on his fingers.

While Roger pulled off his boots, Riggs watched Trish with shining eyes as she began to snip through the duct tape with a pair of scissors, revealing a bloody hand. He had obviously torn out the cannula from the back of his hand, removing the painkillers and other medication being drip-fed into his system. It was a _mess_.

"Sanitary towels?" She asked, smiling.

"Only thing I could find," Riggs answered. "Bled a lot. Had duct tape in my truck."

"Martin Riggs," Trish sighed softly, shaking her head. "What _are_ we going to do with you?"

Riggs gave her the rarest of his smiles … the one that was soft and sweet and riven with sadness.

"Hell, Trish … I have _no idea_." He blinked slowly, and Trish suddenly realised he was sick, and hurting, and he _needed_ them. _All_ of them, even little Harper, who made him smile.

"Okay, you foolish, _foolish_ man, let me sort out this hand and then you can get some sleep." She touched his brow with her hand. His skin was hot. "Do you have antibiotics in that bag?"

Riggs screwed his face up in deep thought, just like Harper did when she was filling her diaper, and nodded.

"Think so. Doc thought I had a bit of an infection." Riggs curled his lip in derision. "What does _he_ know?"

"More than you, Riggs, you numb-nuts!" Roger said, now helping his partner into the sweat pants. Once it was done, he reached around Riggs and undid the ties holding the gown together.

"Rog! Language!" Riggs admonished, eyeing Trish, who was cleaning up the torn skin on Riggs' hand and gently putting a dressing on the injury before bandaging it up.

"Shut up, you idiot!" Roger scowled, trying not to smile. "Now … let's get you warmed up a bit. You're shivering, man …"

Trish hadn't noticed the shivering. Riggs was either freezing or feverish. _Probably both_ , she decided.

As Roger eased off the hospital gown and wrangled the pyjama tee onto Riggs' damaged torso and over the bandages, she rummaged through the paper bag, pulling out the medication Riggs had purloined from the hospital. Checking the dosages, she cocked an eye at her damaged visitor. _No_ , she corrected … _family member_. Like the crazy, unbalanced cousin nobody ever talked about.

But she had work to do here, and dug through the first aid kit for a thermometer. Grasping it, she pointed the business end at Riggs, who eyed it suspiciously.

"Open," she said.

Riggs glanced at her, brows drawn down. Trish put on her best 'intimidating-the-screwy-witness' frown, and Riggs, who was secretly scared of her, opened his mouth.

Trish inserted the thermometer under his tongue.

"Shut," she added.

Riggs instantly did as he was told, but then decided he needed to say something.

Trish held up a finger.

"Don't you _dare_ , Martin Riggs. Be quiet, behave and sit still. You _hear me?_ "

Riggs made a sound that could have been "Yes'm", so Trish took that as a win. Riggs sure could talk for Texas.

Roger left Trish to deal with Riggs as he headed off to make his telephone calls – one to the hospital to make sure that they knew where their errant patient was, and the other to Avery, mainly to make sure the Captain wasn't having a stroke and to let him know Riggs was alive and nearly-kicking.

Trish removed the thermometer, and with Riggs drowsily trying to peer over her shoulder, found he was running a 101.3 degree fever.

She 'tsk'd' to herself and turned to Riggs, who had carefully arranged his features into that butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth expression, the one he usually tried when Trish was angry with him. It never worked, but Trish had to give him points for trying.

She held up the antibiotics.

"Okay, Martin," she said, trying to keep calm, "can you remember when you last took one of these?" She rattled the container at him.

"Um …" he was obviously trying very hard to think about it, and then shook his head. "Didn't." He waved his bandaged hand at her. "Was gettin' the stuff through the can … um … cannu … _thingy_ in my hand," he explained.

Well, that was good. Next question.

"Pain meds?"

Riggs was struggling with all of this interrogation.

"No idea," he admitted. "But I'm good."

 _So_ , Trish thought, if they could manage to keep him on a pill-only-when-required regime, that might work.

There came a knock at the door and RJ peeped in.

"Um … Mom … just to let Martin know I parked his truck in the drive." RJ smiled. "He left the keys in it," he added, although he knew no-one in their right mind would steal Riggs' pile of junk.

Riggs raised his hand and wriggled his fingers at RJ.

"Thanks, man. I owe you one."

RJ, who owed Riggs _big time_ for the times the detective had hauled his butt out of trouble, usually with his dad, grinned.

"No problem." RJ's face relaxed and settled into that slightly-scared expression he had worn when Riggs had arrived, hurt and loopy, and his voice was soft with concern. "You going to be okay?"

Riggs gave him a friendly wink.

"Yeah, sure I am," he countered. "Be back annoying the crap outta your dad before you know it."

RJ nodded, happier now.

"Okay. Mom, I'm heading to bed. 'Night, Martin."

Riggs closed his eyes and smiled. He was a good kid.

"'Night, RJ."

As RJ headed to his room, Riggs sat quietly on the bed, and then reached over to grasp Trish's hand, holding it gently. He looked over at his best friend's wife, and nodded to himself.

"I'm tired, Trish. Really _, really_ tired."

Trish's heart broke. She knew he wasn't speaking about his wound and its aftermath.

"I know, sweetheart …" she squeezed his hand. "I know …"

And then Roger returned, his face a little strained but obviously easier in himself after the worry of the past few days.

"Okay, we're fine. He's good to stay, at least for tonight, and we'll speak to the doctors again in the morning. Cap's happy now, and we can all relax and get some sleep."

He crouched down in front of Riggs, who was just about asleep where he sat.

"Riggs … c'mon. Let's get you into bed so's you can get some rest, okay? You got meds to take?"

Trish waggled the antibiotics again, this time at her husband.

Riana popped her head around the door.

"I've given Harper her bath and she's asleep. Can I get you anything, Martin? Mom?"

Trish smiled at her daughter. _Her talented, brave, good-hearted daughter_.

"A pitcher of water and a glass, please, so Martin can take his meds." Trish asked softly.

Riana nodded, and then looked at Riggs, the annoying, embarrassing 'uncle' who had her back even when she didn't think she needed it.

"Just yell if you need anything, okay? Martin?"

Riggs, eyes still closed because it was far, _far_ too much effort to open them, waved a hand in her general direction.

"Thanks, Riana. Sleep tight."

"Okay then," she whispered to herself, happier now that he seemed a little better, and then she was gone on her errand.

"You got nice kids. You know that, don't you?" Riggs murmured.

"Yeah," Roger said, almost to himself. "We do." He took a deep breath and touched Riggs' shoulder. "Right, you pain in the ass, into bed. Sleep." He paused for a moment. "We're here if you need us."

He helped Riggs stand as Trish pulled back the covers, and in less than a minute the wounded man was warm and comfortable and not hurting so much now, and Trish tucked him in. Riana brought the water, and Roger helped Riggs take the antibiotics. He was set for the night, it seemed.

"Rog … Trish … thanks." He murmured sleepily.

"Hush, Martin. Get some rest. We'll check in on you later. And there is nothing to thank us for. You're family."

Riggs nodded to himself, and then roused a little.

"C'n … c'n you leave the door open a bit? And the light on in the corridor? S'that okay?"

"It most certainly is. RJ used to be the same." Trish didn't mention that RJ was five years old at the time. "Anything else?"

Riggs opened one eye and looked at his friends.

"Family, right?" he asked.

"Yeah … I guess so," Roger said, unable to stop the amusement in his voice.

Riggs hauled out an arm from beneath the covers and poked himself in the forehead with a long finger.

"G'night kiss."

He poked his forehead again for emphasis.

Trish smirked. He was incorrigible. Roger just thought the damaged idiot was insane. But then, everybody knew that was true.

Trish leaned over him and gave Martin Riggs a soft kiss on the brow, and then she ran her fingers through his unruly hair.

"Goodnight, sweetie. Sleep tight."

"'Night, Trish." Riggs sighed. "'Night, Rog."

And then his breathing deepened. He was asleep.

Roger put his arms around his wife and kissed her hair.

"Cap told me Riggs has you an' me down as his next of kin. I never knew that."

Stunned, Trish put her hand over her mouth and hitched a sudden sob.

"Oh, _Roger_ …"

"Yeah," Roger Murtaugh said. "I know."

And leaving the door ajar and the soft light on in the corridor, they headed to their own bed.

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, Riggs stirred. He drifted awake for a few moments, and gasped as his side twinged.

But he was warm, comfortable, and his head was a little clearer. He knew where he was. He recognised the pictures on the wall, and he knew that his partner and his lovely, kind, scary wife were asleep in the next room. He knew RJ was probably sneaking onto his laptop for a game or two, and Riana was safe and sound in her room. Little Harper slept with her parents, snuffling quietly in the night.

The dog was draped over his legs, snoring gently as it twitched.

Riggs smiled and closed his eyes.

Sending a mental goodnight to Miranda, whole and beautiful and forever deep in his heart, Martin Riggs fell sound asleep with his family around him.

 _Finis_


End file.
